Adjusting to Fatherhood – Part 1 of Many

I blew it last night. I came home to grunted, one-word responses to my greetings and apologies, along with Mommy in bed, not particularly happy with me.

I didn’t poison Baby Girl, or drop her on her head or anything. But I did forget that my life is no longer my own. And I suppose the truth is I blew it not just as a father, but as a partner to Mommy. I didn’t do anything ridiculously stupid, just inconsiderate and kind of insensitive.

I think I’ve adjusted pretty well to that idea. Overall it seems to have caught hold with minimal resistance. I’ve given up just about every bad habit I used to indulge in, and given that I was doing it for Baby Girl, giving it all up wasn’t that bad, in fact most of it was pretty easy. The right motivation can do that, I hear.

Of course, I haven’t fully adjusted, otherwise I wouldn’t be in the doghouse right now.

So what did I do? Well I went to the gym and stayed a bit longer than I usually do without telling Mommy I would be staying that long. Insensitive, I know. Inconsiderate, I know. There really isn’t any defense. All I can offer by way of explanation is that a number of factors have combined to challenge my sense of, well, I guess my sense of manhood, and it has resulted in my getting back into martial arts and spending a lot of time punching people and getting punched back, doing ungodly amounts of work at the gym, and a streak of competitiveness I haven’t really given much serious thought in a while.

Interestingly enough, there have been a lot of news stories about how the economic crisis has affected men more so than women, at least in the sense that most of the people who have been laid off have been men. That in turn has led to an increased number of so-called house-husbands, who, let’s face it, before we were in that position, most of us who weren’t in that position, kind of snickered at, because the manly thing is to get out and earn a living and provide for the family, kill buffalo, skin them and bring home the meat to roast over an open flame while we bragged to the other hunters about how we killed the thing with only a matchstick, a potato and an empty carton of milk.

Partly because I have been put in the role of Daddy Day Care, I got back into violent sports to keep my man ego from feeling like it had been dressed in a tutu and named Shirley.

So there’s that.

Then there’s the fact that, like it or not, I am getting older. The grey hairs are popping up with increasing frequency, the joints hurt more than they used to, I need more sleep, less spice in my food, and I no longer think that just because the volume goes up to 11, I should automatically assume that I need to put it at 11 (a coupon to Dick’s Hamburgers for the first person who can name that reference). This is relevant because there’s a guy who just started at my gym, who is bigger, faster, younger, and probably better looking than I am. Right now I can still whup him because I’m in better shape, and I’ve been doing this longer, but he’s a quick learner, and I have a feeling that he’ll be handing Daddy his ass pretty soon.

Which means I’ve been working harder, staying longer and generally fighting off the inevitable as much as I can, because, well, I don’t want to get older dammit.

All of this isn’t to say that my sudden desire to get back into shape and sharpen my skull thumping skills is completely selfish. I was, until I started wrestling in high school, kind of a chubby kid. I won’t say it was the only thing that made grade school, junior high and parts of high school a living hell (the comic books, bad clothing, and general dorkiness didn’t help), but it played a part. And once I quit wrestling and went to college, and put a few pounds back on, I’m pretty sure it effected my self confidence, but my overall impression of myself. Let me put it this way: I was down in Pioneer Square one night and some crackhead had the audacity to comment about my tummy. When a crackhead has feels like it is OK to say something about your weight, we’ve passed the point of things being OK. You’re a f&^%ing crackhead! What the are you doing criticizing anybody?!?! YOU SMOKE CRACK YOU MORON!

As much as I am doing this for me, I am doing this for Baby Girl. First of all, parents are a huge influence on who you become as a person. I want the example I set for Baby Girl to be a good one. I want her to know that physical fitness and well being are important, are something to value, and something to strive for. I don’t want her to think that just because America is getting fatter by the minute that it’s alright. It isn’t. And I don’t want her to have me as an example that it is. Not to say I want her to be anorexic, but I damn sure want her to know that a good workout schedule is an important part of life.

Second of all, and some of you may see this as overreacting, or unnecessary, but I want any guy she brings home to have a healthy, not overwhelming but definitely healthy, sense that if the screws up, I may not only want to, but that I am quite capable of thumping him for it. I also plan on investing in a number of handguns to heighten the affect.

None of which excuses the fact that I should have taken the minute it would have taken to call Mommy and let her know I was staying late. I’m sorry Mommy. I do love you and I know I was an inconsiderate ass.